Going Nowhere Somehow
by ChequeRoot
Summary: Sometimes loneliness needs company; a chance to be lonely together. Waylon Smithers and Dewey Largo know this all too well.


"We can't keep doing this," Waylon Smithers muttered as he drove his Porsche along the winding road.

"You say that every time," Dewey Largo replied, looking out the window at the trees they passed in the dark.

"Mmm-hmm," Smithers replied, not taking his eyes off the road.

How had this even started anyhow, he wondered. More importantly, why did it perpetuate? It never should've happened once, and yet here they were, yet again, denying everything even as the top of the hill came into view.

* * *

It began that night at the club when both men had drank more than their fair share. Smithers had come to dance, to drink, to cloud his mind for a bit. Another night alone, his thoughts on a man he couldn't have. Going home wasn't on his mind. He needed to distract himself from his single life.

Time slipped away, swallowed down with each refilled glass. Vodka tonics, then just straight vodka. No one drank it for the taste, Waylon knew. They drank it to forget.

He danced with one man, then another, spinning on the floor until the room swirled with him. At long last, he made his way back to the bar, holding onto the stool for support, and ordered "one last drink."

Again.

Just one more "one last drink."

He wondered what time it was, looked at the screen of his phone, but the numbers seemed jumbled up, blurry. Waylon sighed. He was drunk, certainly. But still standing up. A slow song was playing. He swayed his head in time to the music, hoping the motion would help him lose himself.

All it did was make him feel slightly ill.

"I'm too sober for this shit," he muttered to himself, listening to the music; putting his head in his hands.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, a presence at his side. A scent that reminded him of camphor and old parchment, with a dash of cologne and sweat mixed in. "You don't seem sober at all, sweetie."

Waylon raised his head. An older man stood next to him, long white hair, a receding hairline. Brown eyes; a pursed mouth not used to smiling. Waylon recognized him from somewhere. "The parade. Dewey, right? Dewey Largo?"

The newcomer nodded.

"Waylon Smithers, from the nuclear plant." He extended a wavering hand. Dewey took it, gave it a firm shake. The motion seemed to bring Smithers back to reality.

"So, what are you doing here?" Dewey asked, dropping into the stool next to Waylon, and sliding an arm around the other man's shoulders. Waylon rested his elbows on the bar and stared at his reflection in the varnished surface. "Just... relaxing a bit," he replied. He took a sip of his unadulterated vodka. A lone drip rolled down the glass, landed on the surface of the bar. Waylon dragged his finger through it, distracted.

He felt Dewey's arm slide lower down his back, and didn't resist.

"Well, it's getting late," Dewey observed. "They're going to start playing 'Closing Time' any minute now. What's say we get you home?"

Waylon nodded, then wished he hadn't. The room bowed with him. He closed his eyes, put both hands on the bar to steady himself. "I'll close my tab!" he called out, not bothering to raise his head.

"You want me to call you a cab, Waylon?" the bartender asked. "B'cuz I really don't think you should be driving home like that."

"He's riding with me," Dewey replied, a hand now on Smithers' waist, fingers tucking into the younger man's hip pocket.

"I'd like that," Waylon replied, raising his eyes. One hand on the bar, the other on Dewey's thigh, he pushed himself up and stood unsteadily for a moment. Dewey met his gaze, and their eyes locked a half-moment too long. There was no turning back now, not that Smithers wanted to.

Mister Burns nothing more than a distant memory, he felt Dewey's hand now fully in his pocket against the curve of his ass, and didn't object. He traced a finger along the older man's side, gave a playful poke.

Arm-in-arm they walked out.

Waylon Smithers left the club.

He did not go home that night.

Somehow, they made it back safe to Dewey's house. Under the cover of darkness, hands rushed to disrobe one another of their last daytime memories. A practiced touch, a lingering caress... Smithers welcomed it as Dewey's arms wrapped around his hips. He rested his weight on his elbows and rocked his knees back, the longing in him filled at least temporarily. His mind flashed briefly to another man, before Dewey put his hand at the base of his neck, and grunting his name. Waylon bore down, head low, teeth clenched lest words fall from unbidden from his mouth.

And there, in the darkness, they lay. Drunk, sweat drying in the cold air. Waylon, exhausted and spent, threw an arm over his face, rolled on his back, and let himself drift into oblivion.

The next morning he was gone before daylight.

Waylon Smithers and Dewey Largo never talked about what they had: the one-night stand that repeated itself in the form of a regretted text, or drunken plea. It was like _Fight Club_ , Waylon thought as they met again and he climbed atop the older man.

What's the first rule of Fight Club? You don't talk about Fight Club!

Just so, they never spoke of this either.

At work, Smithers spent his days beside the object of his affection, Charles Montgomery Burns; and most nights he fell asleep alone, in his own bed, dreaming of a life he knew he'd never have.

Then he'd get a text from Dewey... or maybe even send one himself.

Going to Dewey's house felt awkward, but it felt worse when Dewey came over to his. It made it too real somehow, too much like an official relationship. Instead, they took to driving, following the roads to deserted locations, sometimes staying in the car, sometimes slipping into a grassy field beyond.

When Waylon drove, he brought a blanket.

Dewey's station wagon provided room for them both with the back seat folded down.

Alcohol no longer was a necessity.

Sorrow and comfort did the job quite nicely.

Waylon never asked Dewey about his life, never discussed hopes and dreams. Their encounters were always blanketed in darkness both metaphorical and real. Dewey seemed covered in a miasma of unnegotiable regret. "My life has been a cosmic joke," he said one day between kisses, eyes closed. "Joke on me; joke of the ages. No punchline, just punches."

Smithers leaned forward and covered Dewey's mouth with his own, tongue caressing tongue. _Shut up, and kiss me_ , his actions said; which Dewey did. They even came up with a word for their encounters. "Carpooling." An innocent term. It kept everything from becoming too real.

* * *

Tonight, it was Waylon's turn to drive. He'd called Dewey without preamble. "Want to carpool up to the point tonight?" he asked.

Dewey said yes.

That brought them up to where they were, riding in Waylon's blue Porsche, Dewey's hand on Smithers' as the younger man shifted gears. They came to the top of the rise and parked, overlooking Springfield far below.

Without preamble, Waylon unbuckled his seatbelt, leaned over and slid his hand between Dewey's legs. Hard, eager. Waiting to bury themselves and their sorrow in one another. Lips met lips. Dewey was already pulling Smithers' vest off over his head, biting along the younger man's neck.

Their love, if you could call it that, had only three rules; the first that already known. The second rule was simple: "always wear a raincoat." The final only made sense, given both their public professions: "no marks where anyone can see the bruise."

Dewey sank his teeth along Waylon's shoulder, causing the young man to cry out, and dig his fingers into Largo's flank. Sometimes their liaisons were slow and mournful, other times hot and almost savage. Waylon still had the healing scratches on his back from Dewey's fingernails during their last encounter. Tonight he was determined to leave some bruises of his own.

Rough and without remorse, he unclasped Dewey's seatbelt. Pushing his body further onto the older man's, he reached over and grasped the door handle of the passenger side door; the door Dewey was pressed against.

Both men fell out into the grass beyond, Waylon pushing himself atop Dewey; the older man willingly fighting back. What happened next was fast and hard, a cockfight that left the loser, or perhaps winner depending on how one looked at it, bent over the hood of Waylon's car, doing his best not to cry out loudly as he was taken intensely from behind.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over.

Waylon's legs trembled as he fumbled to grab the pants that had pooled around his ankles. Dewey was hitching his own up, fastening his belt, gasping for breath.

Waylon leaned over and reached into the glove box of his car; pulled out a box of cigarettes. He took one out, and offered the pack to Dewey, who declined. Smithers shrugged, without a word and stuck the pack back in his car. Lighter in hand, he cupped his hands around the flame, and brought it to his lips.

The end of the cigarette caught, glowed orange as he inhaled deeply, and leaned back on the hood of his car. Dewey sat down next to him. Unbidden, their hands met, fingers intertwined. In his mind, he heard the refrain of a song, the same one that had played that fateful night that started it all.

 _Take a look at where you're going  
Do you know where you come from?  
Seems like you've spent your life just  
Searching, In the length of just one song_

 _But you know you're going nowhere  
Like so many of your age  
This has gone on far too long now  
To be dismissed as another phase_

He gave a sad smile to no one in particular, and gave Dewey's hand a squeeze. "I don't want to break your heart, I don't want to let you down. It's just that I always thought life would be more than going nowhere somehow," he sang softly, a gentle tenor.

Dewey rested his head against Waylon's shoulder, free hand tracing patterns in the younger man's short grey hair. He buried his face against Waylon's neck.

 _'cause it's easier being lonely_  
 _Than being let down again and again_  
 _When you're standing on edge of_  
 _Things, It means you never have to pretend_.

"Music," he muttered, voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "That's one thing I thought I knew."

"We can't keep doing this," Waylon muttered softly, exhaling a trail of blue smoke into the night sky.

Dewey squeezed his hand. "You say that every time."

"I'll probably say it next time too," Waylon replied. He tilted his head back and watched the stars above.

He was right, of course, they both knew it. It was the way things would continue to be.

* * *

.

* * *

 **Author's Note and Standard Disclaimer:**

The idea was inspired by the art of Garrett-Strangelove of Deviant Art; who also was the source for the cover art. The lyrics are from the song "Going Nowhere Somehow" by White Town, written by Jyoti Mishra. I do not own the Simpsons; property of Matt Goening and Fox Broadcasting. This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.


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